Down in the Zero (6 page)

A squad car came toward us at a leisurely speed, too fast for prowling but not in a hurry. The kid toked on his joint, unconcerned.

"What's in there?" I asked him. We were rolling past a freestanding building with a big parking lot full of cars, some of them covered with college–age kids. It looked like an upper–class version of a drive–in hamburger joint.

"The Blue Bottle. A nightclub, like."

"You ever go there?"

"Sometimes. It's not really down."

"Where do you hang out, then?"

"Houses, man. In the houses. If you know the circuit, it's always party time."

I
n the morning, there was a fat housefly buzzing around on the inside of my window screen. I found a plastic squeeze bottle with a spray top—the kind you use to mist houseplants—and filled it from the tap. I gently misted the fly until it stopped moving. Then I picked it up carefully, opened the window, put it outside on the ledge. I watched, smoking a cigarette. Finally, it shook itself and took off. You can't drown a fly.

I dragged deep on the smoke, playing it in my head. Burke, he wouldn't hurt a fly.

Just kill a kid once in a while.

I
got dressed slowly. Last night had been a waste. Driving around, looking at not much of anything. The kid didn't seem scared anymore, but every time I mentioned leaving, the panic danced in his eyes. He was going to make a list for me, give me a place to start.

I'd seen his kind before—a herd animal, with no drive to be the bull of the pack.

There was a strange car in the driveway. A black Acura NSX, gleaming in the sun, standing like it had been there awhile—I hadn't heard it pull in. I opened the back door. A woman was in the kitchen, playing with the coffeemaker, her back to me. She was maybe thirty, thirty–five, hard to tell. Medium height, with short black hair cut in a blunt wedge, wearing a white tennis outfit. She didn't turn around, just glanced at me over one shoulder.

"Want some?"

"Some what?"

She made a little snorting noise. "Coffee. That's all I cook."

"No thanks," I told her, opening the refrigerator, tapping the plastic water bottle into a glass. I sat down at the kitchen table, sipping the water. She finished what she was doing, turned to face me, leaning against the counter.

"I'm Fancy," she said.

"You sure are.

"That's my
name
. I already know yours.

I looked a question over at her.

"Burke, right?"

"Yes."

"You're the caretaker, aren't you? Yes. You look like you could take care of things."

I didn't answer, watching her face. Her eyes were light gray, heavy with mascara and eyeliner, set wide apart with a slight Oriental fold at the corners. Her nose was small, too perfect to be factory–stock. Her chin was a tiny point, emphasized by the broad, square shape of her face. Her mouth was small, the lips almost too thick, slashed with a dark carmine that ran against the light bronze of her skin. A lamp, I figured—this one would know all about skin cancer.

"I was going to wake Randy up, get him to play some tennis with me. Work some of this off," she said, slapping a plump thigh hard enough to leave a welt, a sharp crack in the quiet morning.

"Seems a shame," I told her.

"Playing tennis?"

"Losing any of that."

She flashed a smile. "You like fat women?"

"I like curves."

"Ummm," she said, deep in her throat. "Your mother ever tell you you were cute?"

"No." As pure a truth as I'd ever tell a stranger.

She walked over to the table and sat down, holding her coffee mug in both hands. A diamond bracelet sparkled on her wrist. No rings on her fingers—the nails were long, carefully crafted, the same color as her lipstick. I took out a pack of cigarettes, raised my eyebrows.

"You have nice manners," she said.

"It's not my house."

She nodded, reaching over to push an ashtray in front of me. I fired up a smoke, took a drag. She took the cigarette from my hand, held it to her lips, sucked in so deeply that her breasts threatened the white pullover. When she exhaled, the smoke only came out one nostril. She put the cigarette in the ashtray, turned it toward me so I could see the lipstick smear on the filter.

"Your turn," she said.

I took another drag.

"How does it taste?"

"Hard to tell from such a little piece."

She made that sound in her throat again. Leaned forward. "Let's see if…" just as the kid stumbled through the door.

"Z
'up?" he
greeted us both.

"I thought we were going to play," the woman said.

"Maybe later," he mumbled, helping himself to coffee.

"Then I'll come back," she said, getting up. As she walked toward the door, I could see the harsh red mark where her hand had marked her thigh.

"S
he's a bit old for you, isn't she?" I asked the kid.

"Kind of young for you, though," he grinned back.

I tipped my water glass toward him in acknowledgment.

"She's really my mother's friend," he said.

"Kind of drops in when your mother's not around, keeps an eye on you…like that?"

"She keeps an eye on everything, the bitch."

"You don't like having her around?"

"Not really."

"So…"

"She's gonna do what she wants anyway."

"Okay. You got that list we talked about?"

"Not written down, exactly But I could tell you stuff about them if you want."

"Who cleans the house while your mother's gone?"

"Juanita. She comes in three days a week."

"Un huh. And who cooks?"

"I can always call take–out…there's a lot of different restaurants."

"You got a summer job?"

He gave me one of those "Are you crazy?" looks kids his age specialize in.

"So what you do is dress yourself, make a few phone calls, watch TV…"

"Get high…"the kid supplied.

"And wait for the summer to be over?"

"You got it."

"Make the list, kid. I'm not your fucking secretary, understand? You want this done, you got to do your piece."

"Okay, okay. It's no big deal. I just thought…if you wanted to get started right away, it'd be easier."

"Just make your list," I told him. "Do some work."

I
went back over to the garage. The NSX was gone—deep ruts in the bluestone where it had peeled out. I dialed Mama's joint.

"Gardens," she answered.

"It's me."

"That woman call again. Two times."

Belinda. Nothing to do there. "Anything else?"

"No strangers."

"Okay. Tell the Prof it's quiet up here. Did Michelle call in with a new number yet?"

"No."

"Okay, take this one down I'll be here for a while."

"Good. Okay. Be careful."

"I am."

I
sat there for a while, working it through. Nothing. The kid was a field mouse, that's all. Spooked by the headlights. His list would be useless—cold ground doesn't hold tracks.

The Prof was right about one thing—the whole town was lousy with money. I couldn't see an easy way into any of it. Sooner or later, the kid would need to go out, do something. If I could get him to go alone, I'd have time to look through the house.

I walked back into the bedroom. A stiff white card sat on the pillow, a few words in careful calligraphy on its face.

Call me.

After dark.

     F.

There was a number in the lower right corner.

B
ack at the big house, the kid worked on his list. I watched TV. Every half hour or so the kid would come into the living room, bitching and whining about how it would be easier for him to concentrate in front of the TV—he always did his homework that way. I ignored him each time and he finally stopped.

He made a couple of phone calls. I didn't pay attention. A knock at the back door. The kid got up, came back with a couple of meatball heros, handed me one. I got myself a glass of cold water, sat down to eat. The bread was doughy, with no real crust. The sauce was thin and weak. The meat tasted like aged basset hound. In the city, the only people who'd visit that restaurant would be holdup men.

The kid didn't seem to notice, munching away, washing it down with a couple of Cokes.

It was late afternoon by the time the list was ready. He had the names for all six checkouts, phone numbers for three, a street address only for one.

"It was all in the papers, the other stuff," he said, handing it over, not meeting my eye.

"You didn't really know these kids, did you?"

"Not close, you know. But I knew them."

"Yeah. You tell anyone why I'm here?"

"No. I told them you were the caretaker, like you said."

"Your mother had caretakers before?"

"Once. Once she did. Last year.

"What happened to him?"

The kid shrugged his shoulders. People come, people go. Cleaning women, pool boys, groundskeepers, caretakers…all the same to him.

That's what you get in a town where their idea of fighting racism is giving the maid a raise.

"Whose idea was it…to call me in?"

"Mine, I guess."

"Your mother didn't say anything?"

"She always says the same thing. Every time she leaves. If I get into trouble, I should call you. It just never happened before."

"Okay. I'll take this, get started tonight."

"Started?"

"To look around, that's all. I'll only be gone a few hours."

"Can I…"

"It'd be better if you didn't come along…"

T
roy and Jennifer. Lana. Margo. Brandon. Scott.

Just names. Nothing in the kid's list to make them into people. Maybe he was right—the papers wouldn't cover this up—it wouldn't affect property values like a killer shark haunting the beaches. Tomorrow, I'd see if the local rag had a morgue.

I picked up the phone, punched in the number for the restaurant. It wouldn't matter if it appeared on their long–distance bill—the kid already knew it.

It rang three times. Then "Gardens."

"It's me."

"That woman call again. Say for you to leave an address next time."

"Address?"

"She say, you not talk to her, then she write you a letter, okay?"

"Yeah. Give her the Jersey box, okay, Mama?"

"Sure."

"Anything else?"

"The Prof… see if you have message for him."

"Just tell him nothing yet, okay?"

"Sure. You finish soon?" "I don't know. Maybe." "Maybe not so good, there." "Maybe not."

"Okay."

I hung up the phone. Belinda, still calling. Even if she could keep Mama on the line long enough to run a trace, she'd only get the number in Brooklyn. We ran a series of bounces to the restaurant, changed them all the time. The Jersey P.O. box wouldn't help her either. It's a dead–drop—I've never been there. Every couple of weeks, one of Mama's delivery guys cleans it out, leaves everything at one of the noodle factories off Broome Street. Max stops by at random, picks up the load. He brings the mail back to his temple—I look at it whenever I have a chance. It's not fast, but it's safe. The lady cop wants to write me a letter, I'll get it. And the best she'll get is an answer.

I sat and smoked a couple of cigarettes. Not even thinking, just waiting for dark.

I
watched the bands of light shift across the back fields. When the last thin strip fell into the ground, I closed my eyes.

It was just past ten when I came around. It was country–dark outside then. Rich and quiet–feeling, no neon–knives to dice it into pools of shadow.

I tapped the keys on the phone, holding the stiff cardboard in my hand. It was picked up on the second ring.

"Hello?"

It sounded like her…but not quite. As if she was a little juiced.

"Could I speak with Fancy please?"

A muffled giggle. Then…"Sure. Hold on…"

"It's been dark for a while," she said, coming on the line.

"So?"

"I said to call after dark."

"Oh…that was an order, then?"

"Sure. Don't you like orders?"

"No."

"You'd like mine."

"Not so far I don't."

"Don't be such an adolescent. You're too old for boy–games, aren't you?"

"What do you want?"

"Ouch! I don't like cold things."

I lit a cigarette, not saying anything. Closed my eyes. It was no contest—she didn't know about waiting.

"You want to start over?" she whispered.

"Tell me what you want."

It was her turn to sit quiet. I could hear a faint undertone, like a humming…couldn't tell if it was her or the line. I ground out my cigarette. Heard her take a breath. Then…

"You're no caretaker. And I know why you're here."

"Do you?"

"Yes. Want me to tell you?"

"Sure."

"Maybe I will. Tonight. Late. You know where Rector's is?"

"No."

"It's a club. Private club. Get the address from Randy."

"Okay."

"In the back, the parking lot makes a kind of bulb…like in a thermometer? Pull in there and wait for me."

"When?"

"I'll be coming out around two."

"
Around
two?"

"Yes,
around
two. You wait for me, understand?"

"I'll be there at two."

"Look, you…"

I hung up the phone.

I
went back over to the big house. Music came from upstairs…loud…but I didn't see any sign of the kid. I found a Yellow Pages near the phone in the kitchen. No listing for any joint called Rector's. I tried 411—nothing.

I made my way upstairs. The kid was blissed out across his bed, staring at the ceiling. The marijuana stench was heavy. Sticks of incense on his bureau, unburned—no reason for him to mask the smell with nobody around, I guessed. No point asking him any questions.

I went back over to the apartment. Showered, shaved, put on the outfit Michelle told me would open all these lush doors. In the garage, I helped myself to the Lexus.